Cath Staincliffe - Towers of Silence

I repeated the questions that I’d asked the neighbours but he hadn’t seen her that lunchtime either. “Someone else was asking,” he said.

“The police?”

“No, asking if she’d be home for lunch, the day… you know.”

My neck prickled.

“I said I had no idea. They say the shop is part of the community but I don’t know everybody’s goings on.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Did you tell the police?”

“Oh, yes. But I’d no name. It was a gentleman from her church, passing and wanted to say hello.”

My prickling subsided. “What time was it?”

“Late morning.”

“Before midday?”

“Yes.”

Miriam would still have been at the Whitworth Centre.

“I said she sometimes went down to the community centre and he could try there.”

The bell on the shop door announced two teenage girls. I waited while he served them with cigarettes. If Miriam’s visitor gone to the Centre first instead of calling at her home, how differently might that day have gone? But how was he to know her daily schedule? Who was this man from the church? Wasn’t it more common to ring and see if someone was going to be in before calling on them? I waited till the shop keeper was free and got a description of the caller. Middle-aged black man, grey hair, maybe had a moustache; that was as much as he could tell me. It niggled though, just the fact of him being there the day of her suicide. I needed to check him out, contact the church and see if they could help me identify him.

So I had established that none of the near neighbours had actually seen Miriam return home. That didn’t mean she hadn’t eaten lunch there. But there was a more straightforward way to establish that; by asking Martina and Roland what they had found on their return from school. In doing so I could also find out whether Roland was at home playing his music that day or whether Mrs Boscoe had got it wrong.

“I’ve invited my mother again,” Ray said as he cleared the table.

“And?”

“ I don’t know Raymundo, lottsa people, lottsa fuss. I don’t wanna be in the way ,” Ray mimicked his mother’s martyr act.

“She wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “As long as she’s home for the Boxing Day races.”

“She made seventy pounds last Saturday.”

“Blimey.”

“Mind you, she only tells me when she wins. We’ll have to do turkey though.”

“You do the turkey and I’ll make a veggie alternative.”

“Just for you?”

“I suppose. Something luxurious that I’d never normally eat.”

He moved the salt and pepper and wiped the big pine table down.

“So you don’t mind?”

“I’m fine. It’s Laura you should check with.” The acid remarks and general disapproval that Nana Tello had once directed my way now seemed to be reserved for Laura. I couldn’t fathom it. She’d spent the last years wanting to see Ray fixed up, wanting the prospect of a ‘normal’ family for Tom and now it was on the horizon (well, not beyond the bounds of possibility) she was daggers drawn about it. “You can’t not invite your mother.” I added. “The secret is to have no expectations, or only realistic ones. No nice presents, no delicious meal, no relaxed hours in front of the telly or playing games. Think of Christmas as a chore to be got through.”

“Who rattled your cage?”

“I’m not rattled, just resigned.”

“Cynical.”

“Pragmatic. It’s for the children, who will have consumed enough chocolate by breakfast to sink the Titanic and who’ll then be hyperactive and feverish till bedtime.”

I wondered what sort of Christmas Stuart and his family would have? We hadn’t talked about it, silently acknowledging that we weren’t established enough to be a part of each other’s seasonal plans. Would he have his kids for Christmas or would his ex? Would he be on his own or off to visit other relatives? I ought to find out. With Ray and Laura off work and able to look after Maddie there might be a chance of doing something special, a night at a country inn in the Peak District; long walks and home cooking.

“What do you want for Christmas anyway?” I asked Ray.

“Oh,” he groaned and began to load the dishwasher. “You don’t need to bother. We could just give the children things.”

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. “That’s the spirit.”

“Only…”

“You’ve got me something?”

He looked sheepish. “Get me a CD then.”

“Who?”

“Surprise me.”

“Okay.” What on earth had he got me? And why so soon. I was curious and I felt a hint of excitement. Maybe it was something good, something perfect for me. There I was, letting my expectations get the better of me.

The doorbell rang and I went to get it, Maddie and Tom came out of the playroom to see who it was. A shaky, giggly version of ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’ came from outside. I opened the door to two small boys, both with close cropped hair and tatty clothes. The smaller was missing his front teeth.

“Wait there,” I said.

I gave them fifty pence each.

“Fifty pence!” Maddie observed, when they’d gone. “They weren’t very good. Can we go carol singing?”

Oh, please no. Trailing round knocking on doors with Maddie coming all over shy. I knew who’d end up doing the singing. “Maybe when you’re bigger.”

“You keep the money, don’t you?” she checked.

“Some people do it for charity, to help other people.”

She thought about this. “You could give half of it to charity”

“You could.”

“Look,” Tom interrupted to show me his wobbly tooth. “I ‘an do ‘is,” he spoke with his mouth open and one finger pulling said tooth forward to expose the hole in his gum.

“Gross,” said Maddie.

He turned to give her a better look.

She covered her eyes.

“I bet it’ll come out soon,” I told him, “and you can put it under your pillow.”

“For the tooth fairy.”

“Yep.”

He waggled it a bit more.

“Do you remember losing your first one?” I asked Maddie. “You walked around for weeks with it just hanging by a thread and you wouldn’t eat or brush your teeth or do anything that might bring it out.”

She grinned at me. “Mummy,” she looked serious again. “Who’s Noel?”

“Noel? Which Noel?”

“Is it Jesus? It’s on this card at school.”

“No-el,” I smiled. “It means Christmas, about the nativity when Jesus was born. Now, it’s nearly bedtime, you’ve got another half hour and then it’ll be time to get ready.”

They ambled back to play.

There was a scream and whispering from outside and then a ragged chorus of ‘Away In A Manger’ started up. The lads must have told their mates.

On Tuesday morning I was up for seven and on my way to spy on Adam Reeve by seven forty-five. The traffic was building up already. I parked a few doors down from the house and waited for him to emerge. It was just getting light when he appeared, a bulky rucksack slung over one shoulder. He was taller than his mother with blond hair cut short all over. I noted the time and when he’d reached the end of the avenue in a quick loping stride I got out of the car and locked it and set off after him.

There was a steady stream of pupils walking down Kingsway, the dual carriageway, in the direction of the school and college. Some were clustered at bus stops. Adam kept up a brisk pace. He never looked back. The walking made me warm and I unzipped my coat. It was a dry day, cooler with a fresh blue sky. Most of the route was lined with houses, red brick council houses with privet hedging or fences round the front gardens. I amused myself by comparing the plots with the Christmas decorations in the window. Was there any correlation between horticultural and festive style?